


The Good Party

by Cori Lannam (corilannam)



Series: Salt in the Rainbow [2]
Category: Duran Duran
Genre: Bandslash, Bisexuality, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-11
Updated: 2006-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corilannam/pseuds/Cori%20Lannam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after his one night with Simon, John's still looking for something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Party

_Two years ago_

John left Simon, left the hotel, then got on a plane and left Paris. When he arrived back in Los Angeles, his skin was crawling with wired exhaustion. He had not managed to sleep on the long flight, though he had kept the airline blanket draped over himself by necessity – his tired brain was capable of nothing but reliving the night before in every vivid detail, sealing it in his memory. The mere idea of Simon's body joined with his still had the unavoidable and unmistakable physical effects.

All he had wanted was to know what it felt like to have sex with another man. Now he knew, and he could not undo that knowledge. Nor could he escape the knowledge that he wanted to do it again. What he didn't know was what that made him.

But equally relentless was the impossibility of repetition. He had asked Simon for a favor - one night, one act, no more than Simon was willing to give him. And Simon, with his boundless generosity of heart, had given him everything in that one night. To ask for more would be piggish, impractical, and potentially disastrous.

Still, when he walked into his house, he saw the message light blinking on the answer machine before he even put down his bags, and his heart made a bid for escape through his throat. He hit the playback button before his nerves could talk him out of it. Morning in Paris had been a long time ago, and there was no telling what mood Simon had woken up in.

The rush of relief and disappointment made his stomach turn when a female voice filled the room. "Hi, John, it's me. Hope you made it back from your jaunt back to the old world. And that you brought me something pretty." A giggle, followed by John cursing himself out loud: he'd forgotten, and it'd be as much as his life was worth to come home from Paris empty handed. "Anyway, just wanted to check in about tonight. Call me. Love you."

Gela Nash: the woman he'd been seeing off and on for almost a year. He'd made it clear he wasn't ready to be serious again, and she'd never minded that at all. His hand hovered over the phone; if he called her, it would at least distract him. She had a way of making him forget there was anything in the world besides sunshine and pretty things. It was what he liked most about her, what he sometimes thought he might almost love.

He dropped his hand after a few seconds. Gela meant normality, and he wasn't ready to return to that world yet. He wasn't ready to be distracted from his thoughts of Simon and what they'd done together, no matter how fervent his wish to avoid what those thoughts meant.

Ten more minutes of sulking about revealed that his refrigerator lacked anything more substantial than Evian; his return to normal life was going to have to begin with a trip to the market. Acknowledging that his body had needs other than sex seemed like a good place to start, anyway.

Twenty minutes in the store saw his basket full of random items he didn't need and didn't remember picking up. He turned into the produce section on automatic pilot, headed for the tomatoes, then jolted to a stop to avoid running into someone coming around the avocadoes.

Startled blue eyes met his, and his brain spun, sure that he knew this guy from somewhere, but unable to remember where. Tall, blond, blue eyes, athletic....

Heat spread over his face as he finally remembered. Right here in the produce aisle, that first day of John's hellish journey into sexual confusion -- only last time the guy had been looking at cucumbers. He had smiled, frighteningly attractive, and John had instantly turned tail and run.

This time, the man smiled again, with a little more hesitation. And this time, when John felt himself beginning to smile back, he did not immediately run. He smiled, fumbled for a tomato without checking to see if it was ripe -- and then he ran.

"That's it," he said when he was back in his own kitchen, staring ruefully at the mottled tomato he'd pulled out of the shopping bag. "Clearly, I am never getting laid again."

Not by a bloke, at any rate. On the female side of things, Gela proved delighted at both his constant randiness and his newfound craving for adventure in bed, and they started spending even more time together. He could live with this, with only this and the occasional fantasy. And he believed that right up until the day he came home and found the message light blinking again.

"Johnny, it's me."

A strange head rush swept over him at hearing Simon's voice, tinny out of the little speaker, and he barely heard the next minute or so of Simon's casual chatter. He'd tried to call, just once, but Simon had checked out of the hotel the same day John left. He hadn't heard Simon's voice since the other man had fallen asleep that night.

Since Simon had asked him not to leave without waking him.

He snapped back to attention just as the recording finished passing along love from all the women in Simon's life. A long pause followed, so long that for a moment John thought Simon had either been cut off, or had hung up without saying good-bye.

Then Simon's voice came back, softer, but flatly unreadable. "Oh, and I love you, too. And you're welcome."

The machine beeped, and John stared at it, then scrunched his eyes shut. But it was already too late. His body remembered that night and that morning, how he felt when he wrote Simon that note, the pleasure sparking through the ache in mind and body as he walked out the door.

Simon wasn't his anymore. His brain had to remember that even when his body forgot. Simon was out of his reach now, even if John was willing to risk their friendship twice. Forgiveness didn't always come so easily the second time.

That afternoon he found himself in need of tomatoes, and possibly a cucumber as well. It took three days of relentless produce shopping, but he finally spotted a familiar blond head bent over the aubergines.

"Hi," he said when the man looked up. Their shopping baskets clacked together by accident. "I'm John."

The man smiled with bright, perfect American teeth. He looked John boldly up and down. "Hi, John," he said. "I'm Gabe."

John took Gabe home and hoped he wouldn't notice the piles of vegetables on the kitchen counter. Fortunately, Gabe saw very little of the kitchen on that first visit, and on the second, he seemed to enjoy the salad.

It wasn't love, but it was enough.

* * *

_New York, June 20, 1999_

"You sure this is a good idea?"

John heard the voices just as he was about to turn the corner. He started to smile -- he'd been wondering where his band had got to -- but he stopped cold when he heard his own name.

"JT will love it. Why wouldn't he?" That was Tio, his old friend on the keyboards.

"Because he never talks about it?" Larry answered. "If it were going to be a happy occasion, don't you think he'd have mentioned something sometime?"

His smile came back at that. So his guys were planning a little something for his birthday tonight, presumably something on stage if they were fretting so much about it. His friend Francisco had flown out here to New York to make sure the after party would be up to snuff -- he was a fashion designer, not a party planner, but no professional would dare impugn him. Other than that, John had been careful not to mention the upcoming date. He didn't want to act like he was expecting anything.

But what guy didn't like a little cake and attention on his birthday?

As quietly as he could, he turned back the way he'd come, leaving them to their plans. He made his way back through the cramped back hallways of the club; he knew them well enough after his wife and her partner had launched their new company here a few months ago. His band had played, adding a touch of rock to the fashion crowd, and thankfully no one had acted disappointed at getting only one member of Duran Duran.

He had thought about inviting Simon to come and join him for the night, but when he'd called, he chickened out with the words on his lips. As often as they talked, he still hadn't seen Simon in the flesh in almost two years -- and he still wasn't sure he was over his yen to see too much of Simon's flesh.

At least he'd get to talk to Simon tonight; they always called on each other's birthdays, as ever, no matter what. When he got to the tiny closet that passed for his dressing room, he pulled out his mobile, just in case Simon decided to ring him before the show instead of after. He glanced down at the display -- one missed call, and it was Simon's mobile number. Shit.

He started to dial back, but it was no use. Deep in the warren of the club, cellular signals were scarce beasts, and he didn't have time to go outside. They'd catch up later, no worries, but for a moment the tiny, cramped room seemed vast and empty. It was the price of his freedom, the different between having a band and being in one. He was pretty sure he'd made the right decision, most of the time.

"Yo! JT!" Larry's voice warned him right before drummer fists shook the door. "Come on, birthday boy. Show time."

At least this never changed, the little jump in his stomach right before he went on stage. Nothing could spoil that.

He followed his guys to the side of the stage, and he checked his basses one more time. Then he stuck his head around the wall to sneak a glimpse at the crowd. Looked like a full house, already on the loud side.

Up in the roped-off VIP area on the balcony level, Francisco was already holding court, bossing around some girl who John sincerely hoped worked for the club. He pitied any poor fan who wandered into Francisco's orbit when he was in organizing mode. He recognized a few other people from LA milling around, and on the other side of Francisco stood a familiar --

Oh no. Oh, dear God.

The pleasant excitement in his stomach instantly turned to roiling nausea, and he tasted bile. This could not possibly happen, not here, not on his bloody birthday, for fuck's sake. He was just seeing things.

But then Gabe turned his head, looking as though drawn toward John. He didn't know if Gabe could see him; then a slow spread of perfect white teeth seemed to answer that question. He jerked his head back and plastered his back against the wall.

"JT? You all right, man?" Tio looked up from the finalized set list to give John a curious glance. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

Not a ghost, just an ex-boyfriend. How the hell did he explain that? John had no intention of even trying. "Just thought I spotted someone I hadn't seen in a while," he said hastily. "But I was wrong."

Four heads immediately swiveled in his direction with identical expressions of worry that seemed unwarranted, at least until they started talking. "Well, sometimes it can be good to see people you haven't seen in a while," Tio started slowly.

"Yeah," Larry put in, then added, "You know, to catch up and all that."

The other John, their sax player, was nodding. "Especially on your birthday."

"Yeah, maybe they'd want to come help you celebrate," Gerry put in, then trailed off as they all exchanged less than subtle glances.

The roiling in John's stomach stopped abruptly as a block of ice settled in the midst of it. They knew. Jesus Christ and a thousand blessed saints, they knew. This was their surprise. He'd been expecting a cake on stage, but no, somehow they'd managed to find the guy John had fucked in secret for the better part of a year and invited him to John's fucking birthday party.

Was this some kind of sick joke? How the hell did they even find out? And for fuck's sake, how long had they known and who else had they told? How long had they all been snickering behind his back?

The manager walked by while John was still struggling to keep his supper down. "Ready, boys?"

"Yeah, I think so," Tio said slowly, still watching John. "You good, J?"

"Yeah, sure." John pushed himself away from the wall, biting out the words with great effort. "Let's go."

When they got onto the stage, the lights were already down. John immediately squinted up at the balcony, but he couldn't make out the faces anymore. Slowly the screams of the crowd filtered into his brain, and he became aware of his tech standing next to him with his first bass.

They had a show to do. And they had the biggest audience they'd seen in months. And it was his fucking birthday, and he was going to play a good show if it fucking killed him. He'd get through this one way or another. None of his AA friends were here: he promised himself he could get away with just one drink afterward, if he really needed it.

He smiled apologetically at his confused tech, slung the strap of his bass over his head, and strode up to his microphone. "Hello there, ladies and gents," he said into it, tapping the mike playfully. "Is this thing on?"

The answering screams were as gratifying as he could hope. He forced a smile for their sakes, glad of the lights that mostly blinded him. If he couldn't see Gabe, then Gabe might as well not exist. It was a theory that had worked for him for nearly a year now, and if it could just last him until the end of the set, he might make it through this night after all.

He signaled Larry for a beat, and they launched into Down with You. After a couple of songs, he was feeling a little better. In fact, he almost felt good. And the easiest part was still to come, since they'd ended up deciding to leave the Duran songs until the end of the set. He couldn't remember why, but it had made sense at the time, and now he was glad of it.

They came out of Mister J with a lot of energy. "You've been so good to me tonight, you beautiful people," he said as the last notes died away. "We've just a few more tunes for you, but I'm pretty sure you're going to like them."

"Duran Duran!" a male voice bellowed from the back of the floor. The girls at the front shrieked their approval, and John beamed at them. He'd finally come to the point in his life where their love no longer meant everything to him, but he still liked having it.

Their screams got louder as he struck the first few notes of New Religion. The noise momentarily distracted him from the fact that Gerry wasn't playing with him. Instead, Larry was beating a drum in a simple holding pattern.

He looked up in confusion. Was he getting cake after all?

Tio leaned forward over his keyboards, pulling his microphone closer. "Hang on a minute, hang on a minute. Did I hear somewhere that someone is having a special day today?"

A smile tugged at John's mouth in spite of his sudden, completely irrational fear that they were about to pull Gabe up onto the stage. Cake, he reminded himself, it'll only be cake. "You better not tell them how fucking old I am," he said out loud.

The screaming was continuing unabated, even escalating, and it was starting to seem a little excessive, even for an event like John's birthday. He frowned down at a woman who was clutching at her friend's arm and jumping up and down as she shrieked, bright red in the face. Perhaps she needed to get out more.

Then strong arms slid around his waist from behind. A spike of cold panic shot through him until he heard a familiar voice in his ear. "Not as fucking old as me, at least."

Slowly he twisted around, slinging his bass onto his back. Blue eyes shone into his, and the relief was stronger than the panic had been. For first time in much too long, he was looking into the right pair of blue eyes. "I was expecting cake," he said dumbly.

"Sorry," Simon laughed. "We tried, but I wouldn't fit."

"Well, I guess you'll do, then," he said, and then his arms were around Simon, hugging him hard enough to make sure he was really there. His cheeks hurt before he even realized he was grinning like a fool.

Over Simon's reassuringly solid shoulder, he could see his band watching them with grins that were shifting from relieved to smug. This was their surprise then, not cake and not Gabe. They'd managed to supply the only other man John had ever slept with, but they couldn't know that. Of course they couldn't know.

Simon reached behind John and pulled the microphone stand toward him. "What do you say?" he said into it. "Shall we remind our boy just how old he's getting?"

The noise almost drowned out his question in answering it. John found himself bouncing on his heels as he disengaged from Simon enough to swing his bass back around in front of him. When he started to play, this time the band was with him.

And so was Simon.

* * *

"Happy birthday, my man! And great gig, wow. Once in a lifetime thing, huh?"

"Thanks, thanks," John responded on autopilot, clasping hands and squinting a little. Maybe his contacts were drying out, but he didn't recognize half these people beyond a vague niggle of familiarity. Francisco seemed to have recruited half the people John had ever met, and in New York that translated to a lot of drug flashbacks.

Moving past the vaguely familiar guy, he took the opportunity to crane his neck and look around for either Simon or Gabe. He'd seen nothing of Gabe after that fleeting glimpse before the gig, and at this point he was almost willing to chalk it up as a bizarre hallucination. Maybe thinking about Simon had summoned all his ghosts of gay lovers past.

"So you liked your birthday present?" As though summoned again, Simon's voice was in his ear. A glass pressed into his hand, and then Simon's arm came around his shoulders, friendly and normal, and John turned his head to grin at him.

"Fantastic. Man, I haven't felt like that since--" He hesitated, but it was too late to avoid the awkward conclusion to the sentence.

Typically, Simon didn't even try, just went right for it. "Since you abandoned your mates for the solo life in the glamorous USA?"

He winced a little, even though he'd been expecting it. "People certainly seemed to like it," he dodged. "I've heard nothing all night besides how great we sounded. And looked, of course."

"Of course." Simon clinked his beer bottle against John's glass. "There's my birthday gift to you, Johnny -- attention."

"Much appreciated." John laughed and drank down half the diet Coke Simon had brought him. "I'm really glad you're here, you know. Not just for the performance."

"Good." Simon was smiling: John could feel it in the brush of stubble against his ear, in the affectionate nudge of Simon's nose against his cheek. "Nick sends his birthday greetings, by the way."

"Does he really?"

"Yes, of course."

"No, he didn't." John was certain now; it was there in Simon's voice.

Simon shrugged against John's shoulder. "I'm sure he would have, if I'd told him I was coming."

"You don't have to defend him, you know."

"I'm not defending him." Simon shrugged again, a sudden discomfiting edge in his voice. "He's perfectly right to be angry, though personally I think it's been long enough now. Then again, I never did get the hang of holding grudges like Nick can."

He gaped a little and pulled back enough to look at Simon, not knowing what to say, since he hadn't seen this coming. From Nick, certainly, but Simon? "I had to," he finally said, knowing it wasn't adequate even as the words left his mouth.

"You could have told us - told me. Given me some warning, at least. I shouldn't have had to hear it from our business manager." Simon wasn't looking at him, staring intently past him to the knot of band members at the bar.

"You would have tried to talk me out of it." And he probably would have succeeded, yet again.

"Damn right I would have," Simon answered with great force, then sighed and tightened his arm around John's neck. "Never mind me. I just miss you. Nothing's the same."

No, nothing was the same. Nothing would be the same even if he did come back. Simon lay his head down on John's shoulder, and John wanted badly to turn and pull Simon into his arms for both their comfort. But that would be a bad idea here, even if he thought the gesture would be at all wise now.

So he stood there and smiled and chatted with the people who came up to them to wish John a happy birthday and get a closer look at the infamous Simon Le Bon. Simon ignored the majority of them, seeming to almost doze standing up against John's shoulder. Even as he socialized, the greater part of John's attention stayed with the heavy weight on his shoulder.

Then someone else grabbed his other arm, and he could tell from the cologne that it was Francisco. "You throw a hell of a shindig," John said without looking. "Do I even know any of these people?"

"Who cares? It's a party," Francisco retorted, then glanced across John at Simon. "I'd much rather talk about the people you do know."

Simon stirred and finally straightened up, leaving John's shoulder cold and light. "That's my cue to go get another of these. John?"

"Yeah, thanks," he said, handing over his glass and watching Simon move away before turning back to Francisco, who was wearing a Cheshire grin. "Oh, come on. It's not that good a party."

Francisco's smugness was skyrocketing by the second. "It's okay, Johnny. You don't have to tell me. I know he was the one."

"The one... what? And who?"

"The one from a long time ago. The one with whom you almost...." Francisco fluttered his fingers in the air. "Well, you did leave the details sadly unclear."

Fuck. What with all the aftermath, John had forgotten telling even that much. He seized Francisco by the arm, ignoring his yelp as John dragged him over to the balcony railing where the crowd was thin, away from any casual listeners. "Did you say anything to him?"

Those ridiculously plucked eyebrows went straight up. "Nobody had to say a word, darling," he replied with grating calm. "One look at the two of you and I knew he was your one that got away."

"God," John said faintly, though he doubted he could hope for much divine assistance on this one.

Francisco leaned forward, as though he were the one with a secret. "And if you ask me, which you should even though you won't, you've still got a perfectly good chance with him. Should you ever feel like taking a spin on our side of town."

Been there, done that, he had the hysterical urge to tell him. "You think so?" he choked out instead.

"I was gabbing to him earlier, and if you could see his face when he talks about you, you'd know. Well, maybe you wouldn't, you're so dreadfully dense sometimes. Oh, and while we're on the topic of the pretty, but dumb...." Francisco reached out to pull someone to him. John looked up, and his last nerve dissolved in a flare of stunned recognition. "John, meet my new boy toy. This is Gabriel."

"Hi, John," Gabe said with that irritating smile. "Nice to finally meet the great John Taylor."

"Likewise, I'm sure," John answered through gritted teeth, and gave up trying to figure out what the hell the universe thought it was doing. "Francisco, what happened to Lukas?"

"That was three weeks ago, sweetie. Now, Gabriel, my gorgeous, why don't you keep our guest of honor entertained while I go have a chat with the bartender about this shabby excuse for a mojito?" Francisco suggested, which sounded to John like a smashing way to ruin what was left of his birthday.

"Well, I was always good at that, at least," Gabe said when Francisco had gone. He gave a little chuckle, but John wasn't feeling the humor of the situation.

"What the hell are you doing here, Gabe?" he snapped, feeling a spark of petty satisfaction when Gabe recoiled slightly from his tone.

"My boyfriend asked me to come, John," he replied, calmer than he had a right to be. "I didn't know it was you until it was too late. What did you want me to say, that I thought it would be awkward because you and I used to fuck each other on a regular basis?"

"Christ, keep your voice down." John took a step backward, as though he could distance himself from this entire situation, and Gabe just laughed and shook his head.

"You know, I never had any illusions about what it was between us. You never lied to me, and when you got married, I was fine with ending it." Gabe gave a little shrug, which held an uncharacteristic shyness. "But I like you, John. I think you're a really cool guy, and I still want to be your friend."

He was shaking his head before Gabe finished the last words. "No. Can't happen. I'm sorry, I really am, but it just can't."

Gabe's lips thinned, his hopeful good humor fading with a bitter twist. "Let me guess. You can't handle being friends with a guy you fucked."

"I'm sorry," he said, and he was, but more than that, he wanted this over with before Simon came back.

"You aren't sorry." Gabe's bright eyes had gone cold and flat. "Except that you ever had to lay eyes on me again. Tell me, John, is this what sleeping with a rock star is all about? Or is it on account of you being a neurotic closet close?"

"That isn't fair," he protested, even as he winced at both the words and their volume.

Gabe rolled his eyes, then, strangely, smiled. "Okay, John. I'll get out of your sight, and you'll never have to be reminded that you like taking it up the ass from a big cock. At least, not in front of your macho rock star friends."

With that same smile, he shifted his gaze slowly and deliberately over John's shoulder. Then he turned and walked away, a swish in his step that had never been there by nature. John stayed frozen until Gabe vanished into the crowd. Then he forced himself to turn around.

"I'm macho? Haven't gotten that one in a while. Good to know the testosterone still shows, even if I've taken a big cock up my ass on occasion." Simon stood a few feet away, another bottle of beer in one hand and John's soda in the other. No way to know how long he had been there or how much he had heard – but the tone of his voice under the flippant words told John it had been too long and too much.

There was nothing to do but push forward and hope Simon would show him some small mercy. "I think I'd rather have that one," he said and reached for the beer, only half joking.

The soda wound up firmly in his hand instead. "You really want to fuck up your life even more tonight?"

He forced himself to smile past the sting of the words and take a sip of the watery cola. "Sadly, I really do. Good thing you're here to look out for me."

"Yes, that's me. Simon the ever faithful. Never walks away, even when he should have done." Heavy irony weighted his voice, but John couldn't tell for whom it was meant. Simon was still looking at anyone but John. "You know, I think we've lost our knack for finding the good parties."

"Do you want to leave?" He was suddenly terrified to be alone with Simon, but he was more terrified to be alone without him. They'd had no time together, that was the problem; they needed something to smooth over the rough edges they'd left two years ago. "We can get out of here, go catch up somewhere else."

"I don't know." Now Simon did look at him, and in his eyes John saw all the things he'd feared would come to pass, all the bullets he thought he'd dodged when he left Paris. "Can we still be friends, even though you've fucked me?"

"Jesus, Simon. That wasn't about you." As if there could be any comparison between what Simon had given him and the meaningless gratification he'd sought with Gabe.

"Wasn't it? You sounded pretty sure on the subject. Friendship or fucking, and never the twain shall meet."

He had to do something, say something to get that look out of Simon's eyes. "We're different."

"How?"

Nothing but the truth would do now, or at least as much truth as John knew how to express. "We were never just friends. Were we?"

Simon paused, not taking his eyes from John as he mulled that over. "I suppose not," he conceded at last, and John sighed in relief when his hand came up to grip his shoulder and guide him back to the party. "Come on. There are still some people who want to congratulate you on being a year closer to the grave. When you're done mingling, we'll go."

Relief buoyed him until he felt like he was floating over the crowd as much as walking through it. Simon was everything Gabe wasn't; seeing them both at once only drove home the rightness and cruelty of the choices he'd made. It also put a spotlight on the danger of this game – the fear of being alone with Simon was rapidly losing to the craving for that solitude. And John still had no idea what to do about that.

* * *

"What room are you in?"

"No fucking clue." Simon pulled out a plain white plastic key and turned it over between his fingers as though the next pass would reveal its secrets. "Someone took my stuff and gave me this, and then they hustled me straight to the club. Hey, remember when keys had room numbers on them?"

"Only way I made it back to my room some nights." John laughed. "Show some poor maid my key and hope she spoke enough English to tell me where the hell I was."

"Yeah, I remember some of those nights." Simon gave him a fond smile, then frowned down at his key again. "Well, we can't linger in the lobby all night, and a maid won't be any help. So unless you're planning to take me in, I'd best swallow my pride and ask the fellow at the desk to tell me where my room is."

Hearing words like "take me in" and "swallow" in Simon's voice made John's heart beat in a way that was uncomfortable – but not unexpected, given the events of the evening and the feelings it made him remember. It also cast doubt on the wisdom of John's next words, but he had already succumbed to the inevitable.

"Nah, he looks a bit dodgy. Better just come and stay with me," he said, then continued quickly before the awkwardness could set in. "I promise, your virtue is safe this time."

"Yes," Simon replied slowly, and that steady cool look was somehow worse than the awkwardness would have been. "I imagine it would be."

He sensed he hadn't been completely forgiven, though he wasn't even sure which of his sins Simon was focusing on. But Simon followed him contentedly enough, and they found John's room without intervention from any hotel employees. When they got inside, Simon immediately began wandering, studying the furnishings and John's personal effects as though he'd been asked to fill out an evaluation card at the end of his visit.

"While you're exploring," John said after a minute of watching Simon prowl, his lips twitching with amusement. "Should you happen upon something you want to wear, help yourself."

Please, find something, he managed to keep from saying, because Simon's virtue would be considerably less safe if Simon slept in his usual night outfit of next to nothing. But Simon looked up from the nightstand with amusement quirking his own lips. "Well, I don't know. Did you bring your negligee set?"

Impossible that two years later Simon would still remember that one moment, out of all the moments in that night. John just shook his head as he headed for the shower. "Sorry," he called back over his shoulder. "If only I'd known you were coming."

If he'd known Simon was coming, he reflected as the water pounded his face, he would have been a nervous wreck, and possibly found some way to cancel his birthday entirely just to avoid it. But this was nice, and they obviously needed it, needed it to be just the two of them again, with nothing else in the way.

Of course, the last time they'd been alone with nothing between them, they'd wound up with nothing between them at all. Nothing but a condom, anyway.

He glared down at his cock, which was registering its approval of that prospect. Enough, he advised it sternly. There'd be none of that tonight, and he refused to so much as beat off with Simon in the next room. He'd already taken advantage of him too much.

Calming himself with an effort – and a blast of cold water – he finished and dried off. He pulled on sweats and a t-shirt, safe and completely unsexy. After the scene Simon had witnessed, John couldn't guess what he was thinking of John now, but he didn't want 'sex-crazed gay maniac' to be the first thing to come to Simon's mind.

"All yours, if you want it," he said he emerged, half expecting Simon to respond with an off-color joke to diffuse any lingering tension.

Simon was sitting on the edge of the bed, unusually still except for his fingers toying with the bedspread. "Thanks," he said simply and grabbed the clothing he'd scrounged from John's luggage. He'd gone with a similar fashion scheme, though he didn't usually like sleeping in anything heavy.

As the bathroom door closed behind him, John tried not to analyze that too much. Instead, he settled his glasses on his nose, settled himself on the bed, and tried to concentrate on the book he'd been reading. He managed to blank his mind enough that he didn't look up when the door opened again, though he was aware of Simon as he padded across the room.

The bed dipped as Simon settled, warm and damp, next to him. He shot a glance over: Simon was half under the covers on his side, staring past John at the wall, somewhere deep in his own mind. They had meant to catch up on friends and family, but the quiet was too comfortable to disturb despite Simon's pensiveness. They could talk on the phone, John reasoned, but they needed this more, this quiet comfort in each other's company.

He went back to his book, less focused but with more enjoyment now that Simon was beside him. It had always been easier to forget his troubles when he was with Simon, and he was already feeling much better now. He'd gotten almost to the end when he felt Simon shifting. When he looked over again, Simon was sitting up, studying John's face.

"Are you happy, Johnny?" he asked suddenly.

John found himself smiling, his contentment with this moment almost palpable, outweighing everything else. He turned his head until their foreheads almost touched, and he smiled. "Yeah. Really happy."

Simon smiled back, but it was slow to reach his eyes. John realized he had meant more than just this moment. "Good," Simon replied, and probably meant it. "I'm glad."

They looked at each other for a minute. "You know I had to go. You know why I had to leave," John said finally.

"Of course I do," Simon replied. "Doesn't mean I understand it."

"I don't, either, really," John said, then started to laugh. He wasn't even sure what they were talking about – Paris, Duran, something else entirely – but it almost didn't matter. Simon understood him better than he understood himself most times, and Simon was finally smiling at him again.

"Doesn't matter now, I suppose." Simon flashed him a rueful grin, then slid back down until his head was on the pillow, looking like a sleepy boy. "It all worked out for the best for you. I see that now."

"Yeah," he said, watching Simon with a faint sense of wistfulness. "I guess it did."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to push anything. That's not why I came."

Struck by a sudden urge, John reached over and brushed Simon's damp hair from his eyes. "I know," he said, pulling away with a reluctance that set off alarms in his head. This had been a mistake, he realized. The need to touch and feel was rising again, and his self-control was not rising with it.

Simon's eyes had slipped closed under the caress. He settled deeper into the pillow and sighed; his whole body settled into the bed as he relaxed. John wished he were sleepy, too. This would be so much easier, then, just to curl up next to Simon and let that intimacy be enough.

He made himself go back to his book, but when he had turned the last page, he couldn't remember what had happened. Beside him, Simon was dead to the world, safe from the thoughts John had been so sure he could banish. Though something in Simon's words and manner tonight was making John wonder if Simon would find those thoughts so unwelcome after all. He'd been so affectionate – at least until he'd seen Gabe.

John let the abandoned book drop to his stomach and let his head turn to watch Simon sleep. Simon had come for a one-off reunion on the stage – what other one-off events would Simon have been willing to repeat, just this once more? Did he want this with John again? Or had he at least been willing to indulge John again, if John still wanted it? A tiny voice whined inside him, drowning out all his previous good sense: it was his birthday, dammit. When else was one allowed to want what one shouldn't have?

But he'd never find out now. Not unless Simon was only as asleep as he had been in Paris. John scrunched his eyes closed, waiting for this to seem like a bad idea. But it was his birthday. He'd probably never have another excuse to get away with this again.

"Simon," he said, eyes still closed.

No response came; nothing disturbed the silence but Simon's even breaths. John opened his eyes, turned and brushed his hand over Simon's cheek. "Charlie."

When another minute passed in silence, he slumped back against the headboard with a sigh. It wasn't meant to be this time. He stared at the wall, biting back disappointment and an irrational sense of loss. It was long past midnight; his birthday was over anyway.

Finally he gave up and dropped his book on the nightstand, then turned out the light. He flopped onto his back and closed his eyes, willing himself to be tired enough to sleep. God knew he ought to be. And he had almost managed a light doze when he felt the mattress shift, jolting him back to wakefulness.

Then he felt a warm hand on the side of his face. He opened his eyes to meet the shadowed gaze above him. "You forgot to take off your glasses," Simon murmured, gently lifting them from John's face and setting them aside.

"Oh." He blinked to focus the shadows, but Simon's broad hand provided a better focus as he turned John's head to make John look at him.

"You know," Simon said, almost conversational except for the note of intensity in his voice as he bent closer to John. "I don't believe I made any promises regarding your virtue."

John's heart was beating loud enough he could have played by it. "You did, however, promise me attention," he said, and his mouth was still open on the words when Simon's lips silenced them.

Simon's hand held him still through the first kiss, a slow kiss of reacquaintance. Their mouths moved together in an exploration so thorough John could have no doubts left as to what both of them wanted. He opened wider to let Simon in deeper, and Simon's hand slid from his jaw into his hair to draw him up off the pillow.

The first time they'd been like this, John had been hesitant even in his eagerness. Now he pressed up into Simon with the full confidence of his sexual prowess. "You've learned some things," Simon growled into his mouth.

"Had a good teacher," he gasped in response as Simon ran a hand down his body, pushing the covers down so he could straddle John's hips.

"You'd better mean me, or so help me, I'm leaving right now."

"Of course I mean you, you fool." Impatiently, John pushed up against Simon, making sure the other man felt how hard John had gotten as soon as Simon touched him.

"Good." Simon smiled, then bent back down to John, kissing the corner of his mouth, then working along his jaw line until his breath gusted hot in John's ear. "Then I promise you'll have all the attention even you could want, birthday boy."

As Simon's body pressed full length against him, suddenly the clothing between them seemed like no defense at all. On Simon, John's old sweatpants were the sexiest thing he'd ever seen as they curved along Simon's ass. The material of the t-shirt clung to every inch of Simon's torso, making it impossible for John not to run his hands over the curve of every muscle.

"Can I have my shirt back now?" he asked as his fingers began to slip beneath in search of skin.

"No," Simon answered, though his own hands were already pushing under John's shirt.

"What do you mean, no?" John laughed and teased the fabric up Simon's back. "It's my bloody shirt."

Simon made a negatory sound against John's throat. "If you want it, you'll have to take it off me."

"I can do that," John said with a bit of awe as he hooked his thumbs in the hem of the shirt and dragged it slowly up and over Simon's head. It made the other man release John long enough to let the shirt go over his arms before John tossed the shirt aside and let himself be gathered up against Simon's bare chest. Simon's hair was a mess now, leaving John free to push his fingers into it and pull Simon firmly into his kiss.

He cradled Simon's head as their kisses grew more intense. Simon was rocking gently against him now, his erection teasing John's through the layers of thick material. "Do you want your pants back, too?" he asked between one kiss and the next.

"Yes. I'm desperate for them," John said, already pushing them down over Simon's hips. This time Simon helped by lifting himself up enough to kick them off. Then he settled back onto John, draped naked over him.

The single layer of clothing between them now seemed nearly irrelevant, since John could run his hands down the length of Simon's body, as far as he could reach, and feel nothing but hot, smooth skin. His fingers dug into the muscle of Simon's ass, encouraging him to grind so that John could feel that hard, naked cock rubbing on his thigh, catching on John's pants and making Simon groan with the friction.

"Unfair," he said, voice beginning to hoarsen. "If I don't get to wear clothes, you shouldn't either."

"At least I have clothes," John tried to joke, but Simon was already easing the waistband down over his hard on. The only logical thing to do was to struggle out of his shirt while Simon was busy pulling the pants down his legs. By the time Simon came back, he was ready to pull Simon against him, to kiss while their bodies finally came together with no barriers, an aching reunion of their bare flesh.

Two years. Two fucking years since he'd felt Simon like this. Hundreds of days and nights since that one night when he'd first fucked and been fucked, taking pleasure from his closest friend and learning how to give it back. He reached between them and squeezed Simon's dick; the rush of power he felt when Simon jerked and gasped was like the first time all over again.

His other hand came up to Simon's head again, stilling Simon's need to thrash so John could kiss him while he stroked. "Your cock is so fucking amazing," he muttered into Simon's mouth.

Simon thrust into his hand, pushing both arms under John's shoulders to give them better leverage. "So it still measures up, does it?"

"Measures up to what?" Every stroke he gave to Simon's cock was bumping against his own, distracting him with how much his cock wanted direct contact with Simon.

"The others you've had since." The words ended in a hiss as John rubbed his thumb over the head, dampening it with precome.

The other what? John started to ask, before his lust-fogged brain interpreted. "There was only one, Charlie," he said gently, taking small tastes of Simon's mouth as he got his dick aligned with Simon's so he could stroke them together. "I forgot what he looked like when I saw you."

"Good thing I showed up, then." He bit at John's lower lip, then raised himself up on his hands and knees. "Turn over."

Much as he wanted to keep kissing Simon, not to obey that command was unthinkable. John shifted his weight in small increments; Simon was keeping him tightly confined between his arms and legs. Finally John lay on his belly, and a second later he felt Simon's weight settle on his back and soft lips touch the back of his neck.

"Everything about you is fucking amazing." The tip of Simon's tongue traced the contour of John's ear. "I hope I told you that last time."

John smiled against the pillow. Simon had told him that: with his mouth and his hands and his cock, Simon had told him. He bucked up against Simon's weight as much as he could, making his back rub against Simon's front. "Show me," he demanded. It was time he got that promised attention.

Simon's mouth had already found the tender skin at the base of his neck. John hissed as Simon's teeth caught at it and made him shiver all the way down his spine. Lips and tongue followed that shiver, tracing its path down the line of his back. When they reached the swell of his ass, the teeth rejoined them.

They nipped repeatedly at one spot; then Simon sucked that bit of skin into his mouth until John let out a little noise, his entire mind focused on that bright spot of heat. Simon let go, soothing with gentle swipes of his tongue. John silently vowed to make a mark in return that Simon would find equally hard to explain.

"You have the best ass I've ever seen on a man." Simon was parting his thighs, spreading him open and momentarily distracting him from his plans for vengeance. "I'm so lucky I get to play with it."

John giggled into the pillow, then bit down on it as Simon's tongue stroked over his entrance for the first time. "Oh, God," he muttered when the first shock of feeling had passed.

It went through him again when Simon wiggled his tongue just inside John, before Simon lifted his head to give another nip to his cheek. "Oh, is this still new?" he said with exaggerated surprise. "Your boyfriend never did this? Nor your wife?"

"He wasn't my boyfriend." And his wife would probably declare the idea icky.

But he had Simon, and Simon had already proved he'd give John anything. Now he was giving John the full attention of his mouth, kissing him, circling him, before probing deep with his tongue again and again. John moaned and pushed gently back against Simon's face to increase the sensation. Every time he moved, his cock rubbed on the sheets, doubling the pleasure Simon was giving his ass. It was like getting fucked, only softer, wetter, more delicate but no less intense.

"I'm glad I still have something to show you." Simon moved to the side once he had John so turned on he was panting, sides heaving. He rubbed his hand gently over John's ass; then his thumb circled John's opening, still wet from Simon's mouth. "God, I want to be inside there so badly."

"God," John echoed, trying to encourage that teasing thumb to slide in, at least a little. It had been so long since he'd had someone inside him – more importantly, it had been even longer since he'd had Simon inside him. "God, yes."

"I trust you've got everything?" Simon asked, kissing softly along each buttock as his thumb continued teasing between them.

"Huh?" John said, struggling up on his elbows to look over his shoulder at Simon. He didn't want to be bothered with details, he just wanted Simon to fuck him.

Simon was looking at him with smug amusement. "Condoms?" he said, caressing John's hip. "Lube?"

John just stared back for a minute. Shit. Those details. "I wasn't expecting to have sex," he said lamely. "I have lotion?"

The amusement slowly drained from Simon's face. "Seriously? You don't have condoms? There are no condoms in this room?"

John slowly shook his head. "Fuck. No."

"Well, exactly." Simon sat up, groaning in frustration as his arousal bounced on his thigh. "Fucking hell. I had one in my wallet, but last week we—well, never mind."

"I know!" John scrambled into a sitting position and snapped his fingers, then reached over and snatched up the phone. "I'll ring the concierge, they can always get stuff like that. We've all needed something last minute, right? Just keep quiet and they'll never know who I need it for."

"Hurry. I'm not getting any softer here," Simon growled, palming his cock roughly.

John dialed and waited, prepared to put on his best rock star diva in peril voice. The phone rang – and rang. He gave up counting the rings at twenty, but kept listening, desperation fueling his natural stubbornness. Even just sitting on his ass was distracting him with arousal. If he didn't get Simon inside him soon, he was going to die.

"Give it up," Simon finally said, almost three minutes later. "God damn it. There's no way I'm making it long enough to find something."

"Me, neither." His nether regions were about to stage a rally; he groaned and ran a hand through his hair to keep it from touching his cock. "But we can't…?"

The plaintive half-question was met by an equally plaintive but firm shake of Simon's head. "No. We can't," he said, leaving John to wonder if it would have been that way if Simon hadn't known about Gabe. "We'll have to make do."

He had never felt less sexually creative than at that moment, but if they couldn't find a way to satisfy each other, then his memories of Paris were far less vivid than he thought they were. "Right."

"Where's that lotion?" Simon asked, and thank God he looked determined. If John was going to lose his one chance to have Simon fuck him, at least the entire evening wasn't disintegrating into the awkward mess it could have.

His memory had to struggle to think of anything beyond Simon's body. The lotion – he'd put it in the bedside table before he'd called his wife this morning, just in case. The conversation hadn't turned that way, but now he was glad he'd been prepared for something, at least. "Here," he said, retrieving it and handing it off.

"It'll do." Simon was biting his lip, looking at the tube of lotion, and John wondered if the smell would bring the same memories back for him as it always did for John. "Here, let's lay you back down."

Simon's free hand gripped John's shoulder, and he let Simon turn him, ease him back onto his stomach. He groaned when his cock touched the mattress, wriggling for the little bit of friction he could get. Simon pet him soothingly, but the calming effect only lasted until Simon's other hand, now slippery with lotion, slid between John's cheeks.

"Not fair." John groaned again in protest, even as he spread his legs to give Simon access wherever he wanted. "No fair playing with my ass when you're not going to do anything with it."

"Who said I'm not doing anything with it?" Simon said mildly, and out of the corner of his eye John could see him rubbing the lotion over his rigid cock.

Then he straddled John's thighs and lowered himself until he was stretched out over John's back. When John felt Simon's cock slide in the crease of his ass, he gave a confused grunt even as he closed his eyes to enjoy it. Was Simon going to fuck him bareback after all? There was no question from his end – John already knew he would let him.

But Simon just kissed his shoulder and ran his hands up John's arms, pinning his wrists to the pillows. "I just want to feel you, all of you at once," he breathed into John's ear as his cock slid along John's ass, slow and slick. "You feel so damn good. Even if I'd rather be feeling inside you."

"Tomorrow." John tried to tilt his head back enough to ask for more kisses, but Simon nuzzled the back of his hair until his head returned to the pillow. "We'll get condoms tomorrow, and real lube, and you can spend the entire day inside me if you like."

"Promises, promises." A slight oddness tinged Simon's voice, but the slide of his cock was rendering John's brain too rubbery to think about it.

It felt good, so good, as though their lower halves were somehow having their own separate courtship ritual. Simon's cock was making John's body respond with sensation he hadn't known it could feel. His ass tightened by instinct, in a completely different way than he was used to, giving Simon a tighter channel to push through. But every time Simon's cock rubbed over John's entrance, John cried out, aching to be fucked.

"Not enough," he panted, trying to lift his hips. "It's not enough."

"I know it's not." Simon kept up the firm, gliding torture, though his voice was rapidly hoarsening. "It never is, is it?"

John let out a tiny sob of frustrated arousal. The stimulation was amazing, as though Simon were caressing John's inner channel at the same time. But he wasn't, and John was ready to beg, to make whatever threats or guarantees necessary to get Simon to penetrate him.

"I thought you'd had enough last time." Simon's cock felt hard enough to kill as it prodded John's opening. "Of course, then you went and got yourself a pretty blond surfer boy, so what the hell do I know?"

"Jesus, Simon." His fingers dug into the pillow, nails scraping the pillow case as he tried to get his hands under him. But Simon still had his wrists pinned, their sweat-slicked bodies sliding together as Simon pressed John into the bed.

"Don't get me wrong, Johnny, I'd have taken you any way I could get you." The head of Simon's cock started pressing in, just enough to make John's body arch up with anticipation, thinking it was finally getting what it craved. "But I don't like being anyone's opening act."

The words slid over John's mind as fleetingly as Simon's cock slid over his ass, denying him once again. He buried his face in the pillow and let out a scream of frustration. Then Simon was turning him onto his side, laying down next to him and running his fingers through John's hair. "You're a sadistic bastard," John muttered without opening his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Simon murmured, smoothing his hair off his forehead and kissing his lips, then taking his cock and stroking it. "Didn't mean to torture you."

He cracked open one eye to glare. The man could stroke John's cock all he wanted, it still wasn't going to -- fine, it was. But still. "The hell you didn't."

"I'll make it up to you." His hand tightened on John's cock and he kissed John again, harder and longer. "I think I can make us both happy."

John tried to sound bored, though he couldn't hide the pulsing of his cock in Simon's hand, or the fact that he was returning Simon's kisses with renewed ardor. "I already know you're not going to fuck me."

"Not tonight. But we've done that before anyway." Both John's eyes flew open, but before he could protest he didn't require novelty, Simon went on. "I want to do something I didn't get to do last time."

"There was something you didn't do last time?" John laughed a little as he sought Simon's mouth again. "You were pretty thorough, as I recall."

The laughter caught in his throat when he heard the snap of the lotion tube, and then Simon's hand returned to his ass. Simon didn't bother with one finger, just went straight in with two and started slowly finger fucking him until John groaned against his lips.

"Well, I didn't get to suck you off," Simon said at the exact moment he found John's prostate. "And I want to know what you taste like."

He didn't know if it was the words or the touch that made the pleasure spike through him. "You'd better hurry, then."

"Don't worry, you won't have to last long," Simon promised, and John reluctantly let him go so he could slide down John's body.

Then it was worth it, as that tongue took its first taste, as it explored the length of his cock, as Simon's warm mouth closed around the head and started to suck. All blowjobs were the same from the receiving end -- that's what Simon had told him in Paris, but after less than ten seconds in Simon's mouth, John knew that was bullshit. He didn't know if Simon had special skills, or if it was just that it was Simon, but no one had ever given him head like this.

A third finger entered his ass as Simon began fucking him in short, fierce jabs. It was no substitute for Simon's cock, but he'd been aroused for so long that the pressure of Simon's hand was immensely satisfying in its own right. Simon's free hand rubbed at the base of his dick and over his balls, then wrapped around to hold John steady as the suction of his mouth intensified. John gave a shudder and slid his fingers into Simon's hair.

He gave himself up to the growing bliss, letting himself take what he needed. Gripping Simon's head, he thrust into Simon's hot mouth, pressed onto his strong fingers. One fingertip kept up a constant rub on John's prostate, forcing the pleasure forward into his cock and his tightening balls.

It was almost worth not getting fucked, to have Simon pleasuring him this way - to come from Simon doing this to him. "Charlie," he gasped, the only warning he could give as he surged forward one last time.

Thank God Simon didn't pull away, merely gentled the suction as John shot hard into his mouth. His fingers slowed in John's ass, stroking inside him in an easy, mesmerizing rhythm while he came. When the pulses of orgasm finally faded, John ran his hands through Simon's hair in wordless thanks. Then he flopped onto his back, boneless with exhaustion, letting Simon pull off and out of him.

Simon crawled over him to the other side of the bed, and John heard him spitting into the dustbin. He heard the rustle as Simon shifted back onto the bed, then silence. Finally John forced his head to move, looking over to see Simon kneeling on the mattress by the foot of the bed, staring down at his turgid cock as though he'd forgotten what to do with it.

Lucky for Simon, John had never minded sharing the attention with him. He pulled himself up and crawled to Simon, kneeling in front of him and leaning in until their foreheads touched. "Want some of my birthday present?"

"Very generous of you," Simon murmured with a smile, his eyes slipping closed as John's hand closed around him.

He was hard, possibly even harder than John had been, flesh utterly rigid and still slick with lotion as John began to jerk him off. After the long tease he'd been subjected to, John hardly owed Simon a quick release, but looking at Simon's tense face, he wanted to give Simon what he needed. What he needed was rough and fast, the shortest possible route to climax.

One hand worked hard on Simon's cock; the other came up to cradle his face so John could kiss him. His lips pressed to Simon's lips, then his cheek, his eyes, his nose: slow and deliberate in contrast with the urgent jacking below. He'd been too distracted before by his own need to appreciate what he was doing and whom he was with.

Now he savored the soft cries Simon was making, then smothered them with his mouth so he could feel the trembling groan Simon let out as he came. Hot come splattered onto his wrist and hand; he used it to keep stroking, slowly up and down, until he felt Simon's tension finally ease. They kept kissing, drawing out the lingering pleasure, until John finally broke free with a sigh.

"What does it mean that it feels almost as good when you come as when I do?" he murmured.

Simon smiled against his ear. "That I'm not as good at sucking cock as I thought I was?"

"Oh, you're brilliant." He laughed and pushed Simon down on the bed. "Stay there."

"Like I could move right now," Simon muttered, scooting up to the pillows and collapsing on his back.

Movement wasn't high on John's list of priorities, either, but neither was sleeping with a sticky ass. He cleaned himself up, then came back and cleaned Simon, receiving a half-conscious sound of thanks from the other man. Simon was already mostly asleep, though he reached out and brushed his fingers over John's thigh when John finally settled back into bed.

He hesitated, then stretched out next to Simon, within the curve of that outflung arm. Gabe had never spent the night, and his one night with Simon had been too restless to figure out what the appropriate sleeping position was with another guy. Not that it mattered too much – he fully intended to be up and dressed long before Simon stirred the next morning. Then he was going to go out to the nearest chemist and buy the biggest box of condoms he could find.

His nose brushed Simon's shoulder, and he smiled as he fell asleep.

* * *

The morning sun woke him, the single sliver that got through the curtains hitting his eye at just the wrong angle. He groaned and pushed his face deeper into the pillow. His body felt heavy but happy. He breathed, then breathed more deeply, smiling as Simon's scent filled him.

It was enough to wake him the rest of the way, though his bleary eyes had to adjust for a moment before he realized that he was alone in the bed. Simon's scent clung to the sheets, but Simon himself was nowhere to be found. John blinked in confusion and fumbled for his glasses.

When he got them on and his vision cleared, he wasn't particularly surprised to see Simon's clothes were gone. A lingering hope that Simon had just run out for condoms and breakfast faded when John saw the folded piece of hotel stationery propped up against the lamp on what had been Simon's side of the bed.

He thought about dialing Simon's mobile, but he doubted Simon would pick up, even if he were still on this continent. Instead, he crawled over to sit on the edge of the bed and snagged the paper, opening it to Simon's intense scrawl.

Had a plane I couldn't miss.  
Anything you've wanted, you only had to ask.  
Happy birthday, Johnny.

love, s.

"I wanted you to stay and fuck me, you bastard," he growled. Simon had never said how long he'd be there, but then, John hadn't thought to ask about his itinerary. He should have learned something about assumptions by now.

He started to carefully fold the note to stow in his bag, then snorted at himself in disgust. Maybe it was a good thing Simon had left before John turned into a twelve-year-old girl. He crumpled up the paper and pitched it toward the dustbin. It missed, bouncing off the rim and skittering across the floor.

When he stood up to retrieve it, he hesitated, then picked it up and smoothed it out. Better not to leave it for the maid to find. You never knew when something like this could get sold to a tabloid and blown completely out of proportion. He refolded it and, when he was dressed, tucked it into his shirt pocket.

He'd throw it out later, somewhere less incriminating. And then he'd make sure it wasn't another two years before he and Simon saw each other again.

In the end, he was halfway successful. It wasn't two years before he saw Simon again – it was only one.


End file.
